


Exact and Preconceived

by pocketmouse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-19
Updated: 2009-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exact and Preconceived

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, mirrors.

“Show me.” His voice his heavy, words sliding soft against her skin as his lips skim over the curve of her ear. His hands skim along her waist, pinning her arms to her sides as he noses at her hairline, working his way down to her nape. She doesn’t move until he opens his eyes, locking gazes with her over her shoulder in the mirror.

“Tosh.” One hand closes around her wrist, bringing it up to cup one breast. Finger matches finger, coaxing motion, foreign touch and familiar overlapping, then he stills. “Let me see you.”

They’re standing in front of her mirror, Owen pressed close against her backside, but it’s not her body he’s asking to see. He wants to see what turns her on, what makes her come apart. He wants to see her taking _herself_ apart.

She just wants his touch. Those solid hands on her hips: touching everywhere, exploring. His mouth. His skin. Him. Inside of her.

So she shows him what she wants.

Her hands skim over her breasts, teasing with a feather-light touch, raising trails of gooseflesh in her wake, and she imagines it’s his his hands. His tongue as she circles a nipple, increasing pressure to tug and twist, hard pinches like teeth, and she can’t help a gasp.

“Good, so good,” Owen breathes, kissing along her throat where she can’t reach, long suckling kisses that burn and distract her. She rocks back into him gingerly, afraid he’ll pull away or stop. But he rocks with her, slow and casual, another thing she’s not expecting. She turns her neck, exposing more of it to him, unable to look at the way the curve of his head lines up against her own, his dark hair with just the slightest hint of curl. She closes her eyes.

“Keep your eyes open Tosh,” he whispers. Of course he can see. With a swallow she does so, and he reaches for her wrist again — the other one, this time — and draws two of her fingers into his mouth. He’s watching her again in the mirror as she gasps, feeling the flex of his tongue against the pads of her fingers, sliding between them and over them, leaving them damp and shining with saliva as he releases them. “Touch yourself,” he murmurs, guiding her hand low over her stomach, leaving trails of ice and fire behind them.

She’s already wet, she can feel it, and when she slides her fingers into her pussy — slowly, everything slowly, trying to make it last — it’s warm and smooth and it feels so good, but impossibly better because Owen is watching, his eyes locked on her hand where it disappears between her legs. It takes a split second to decide, not even thinking, really, before she reaches up to wrap her slick fingers around his hand, and it is her turn to guide him, manipulating his fingers and coaxing motion out of them as she rocks until he joins in on his own.

Tosh can feel his erection against her hip, but Owen is ignoring it, his long fingers stroking against her folds in a steady rhythm, sliding deep inside her. His other hand pulls her back against him, spread eagerly against her hip, and she reaches back, trying to tug him even closer as they rock faster. She circles her clit, teasing it, just the slightest indirect contact, but she wants more, and Owen is driving her onwards.

“Look. Look, Tosh. Look.”

Her eyes have drifted closed without realizing it, and her breathing stutters a little when she opens them. Her weight is almost entirely resting against Owen, and with the way he’s wrapped around her and she around him, it’s hard to tell whose arm is whose, which is which. “Beautiful —” she manages. The hand on her hip squeezes, and she drags her fingers over her clit, trying at once to grind into it and Owen’s hand, and he moves for her, coaxing wave after wave of orgasm from her, even after she’s lost all her own coordination, unable to focus on anything except the touch of his hands and the image of him wrapped around her.

He kisses a line down her neck, mouthing over the vertebrae, trailing back up again to nose at the nape of her neck, then nip lightly at the juncture of her shoulder and neck. His erection slides along the curve of her hip, and she tests the weight of it, curling her palm around it, stroking slowly. Owen groans, and she can feel the low vibration where his chest is pressed against her back. She wants to wrap herself around him, taste him, fill her senses, absolutely drown in him, but right now she can hardly believe this is _real_, and she focuses on the mirror, because if she focuses on the real thing, it might all shatter like an illusion.

The mirror shows her just enough, as Owen hides his face in her neck as she strips the orgasm from him. The pale line of his hip, the way his hand presses against her stomach, his shoulder, a slope just above her own. But she can feel him, his warmth all around her, the fine hairs on his leg as it brushes against hers. And she can hear him, smell him, and it’s all those hints together that are more than the whole, and when he turns her around, arms circling around her back, she closes her eyes.


End file.
